“And when ’e downs ’is ’ead and ’umps ’is back, ye cawn’t remain,
y’ know!”
--_Beresford on the Bronco._
“My iron-headed friend,” said the Judge--“and I use the word in more
senses than one--you have now had ample time for deliberation. I have
given you the opportunity to choose--life----”
No menace, no violence, could have left an impression so strong,
so dreadful in its finality, as this brief ellipsis, the casual,
light-hearted manner.
“----at no slight risk to myself. Because, the admiration, the
liking which I have professed to you is real and sincere enough,
though, perhaps, none of the deepest. I will be quite frank with
you, Mr. Bransford; that liking, that admiration has grown with
our acquaintance. A weakness; I admit it; it would be with a real
regret that I should speak the word to cut that acquaintance short. I
will be so much further frank with you as to say that I fancy I can
sufficiently steel myself to speak that word should you again refuse
good counsel. This may be the last of our pleasant meetings. For the
last time, in the words of your favorite writer: ‘Under which king,
Bezonian? Speak, or die!’”
Jeff’s hands gripped visibly at his chair-arms, so that the Judge
observed it--as was intended--and smiled. But Jeff gave his answer
quietly: “I can’t do it. If you had killed Tillotson outright I might,
to save my life, keep silence and let you go unpunished. But I can’t do
this.”
“You mean you won’t,” said the Judge acidly.
“I mean that I can’t,” said Jeff. “I would if I could, but I can’t.”
“By Heavens, I believe you will stick to it!” said the Judge,
greatly disappointed. “Had you couched your refusal in some swelling
phrase--and I can think of a dozen sonorous platitudes to fit the
case--I might yet have hopes of you. I believe, sir, that you are a
stubborn fellow. The man is nothing to you!”
“The man is much to me,” returned Jeff. “He is innocent.”
“So, I believe, are you. How will it help him for you to die? And so
obscurely, too! I think,” said the Judge gently, flicking at his cuff,
“that you mentioned a wife? Yes? And children? Two, I think. Two boys?”
His elbows were upon the table, his white hands were extended upon the
table, he held his head a little to one side and contemplated his
fingers as they played a little tune there, quite as if it were a piano.
Jeff’s face worked; he rose and paced the floor. Mac, by the door,
regarded him with something very like compassion in his hard face. The
Judge watched him with feline amusement.
When he came back he passed by his chair; he stood beside the table,
resting his fingers lightly on the typewriter frame. “Life is dear to
me,” he said, with a slight break in his voice. “I will make this one
concession. More I will not do. Tillotson’s trial is half over; the
verdict is certain; there are powerful influences at work to insure
the denial of an appeal and to hasten his execution. If you can keep
me here until after his execution I will then--to save my life, for my
wife’s sake, for my children’s sake--keep silence. And may God forgive
me for a compromiser and a coward!” he added with a groan. “But if,
before that, I can make my escape; if, before that, I can in any way
communicate with the outside world, I will denounce you, at any cost to
myself.”
The Judge would have spoken, but Jeff held up his hand. “Wait! I have
listened to you--listen now to me. You have forgotten that there are
two sides to every bargain. You sit directly between me and Mac,
your hands are upon the table, your feet are beneath the table, the
typewriter is at my hand. Do not move! If Mac stirs but an inch, if you
dare raise a finger, until you have agreed to my proposition, by the
God that made me, I will crush your skull like an egg!”
“Had ye wrung his neck off-hand, as I urgit upon ye frae the first----”
The words came bitterly from Mac, sitting rigid in his corner--“this
wadna have chancit.” His tones conveyed a singular mixture of
melancholy and triumph; the thickening of his Scotch burr betrayed his
agitation. “Be guidit by me noo at the last, Judge, and tak the daft
body’s terms. In my opeenion the project of smashin’ your head wi’ the
machine is enteerly pract’ecable, and I think Mr. Bransford will e’en
do it. Why should he no? A dead man has naught to fear. My gude word
is, mak treaty wi’ him and save your----”
“Neck. For this time,” hinted Jeff delicately.
The Judge did not shrink, he did not pale; but neither did he move.
“And your presentiment that you would see me hanged? You have abandoned
that, it seems?”
“Not at all, not at all,” said Jeff, cheerily. “You are going to do
just what I propose. You’d rather take the chance of having your neck
broken legally than the certainty that I’ll break it now.”
“With that thing? Humph! You couldn’t hurt me much with that. I think
I could get up and away before you could hit me with it. And Mac would
certainly shoot you before you could hit me a second time.”
“Once will be a-plenty.” Bransford laughed. “You go first, I beseech
you, my dear Alphonse! O no, Judge--you don’t think anything of the
kind. If you did you’d try it. Your legs--limbs, I mean of course--are
too far under the table. And I’ve been practising for speed with this
machine every day. What Mac does to me afterward won’t help you any.
You’ll be done dead, damned and delivered. If he could shoot me now
without shooting through you, it would be a different proposition. Your
mistake was in ever letting me line you up. ‘Tit, tat, toe--Three in a
row!’ Well, what are you going to do about it?”
“Oh, man, ye chargit me streectly to keep this wild cat-a-mountain at
his distance,” interrupted Mac in mournful reproach, “and then pop ye
down cheek by jowl wi’ the deil’s buckie your ainsel’. I’d as lief seat
me to sup wi’ the black devil and his muckle pitchfork!”
As often happens in such cases, the man who was in no immediate danger
was more agitated than the one imperiled; who, after a moment’s
reflection, looked up at Bransford with a smile in his eyes.
“And how am I to know you will not denounce me if I let you go after
this unfortunate Tillotson is hanged?” he demanded. “Or, for that
matter, how are you to know that I will not kill you as soon as I am
beyond the reach of your extremely novel weapon--which, I grant you,
might be effective at such close quarters and in such capable hands--or
that I will not have you killed at any time hereafter? This,” said
the Judge, picking his words leisurely and contemplating his fine
fingers with unreserved approval, “is the crux of the very interesting
situation. Rigid moralists, scrutinizing the varied actions of my
life, might find passages not altogether blameless. But I have always
held and maintained that a man should keep faith where it is expressly
pledged. This is the bedrock upon which is based all relations of man
with man, and to no class is it so needful as to those who are at
variance with society. If a man will not hold by his plighted word,
even to his hurt, he has lost all contact with reality and is become
henceforth no actuality, but a vain and empty simulacrum, not to be
dealt with, useless either for good or evil. Here, for instance, are
we, two intelligent men, confronting mutual instant annihilation; which
might be avoided could each be perfectly sure the other would keep his
word! It is quite amusing!”
“I will take your word if you will take mine,” said Jeff. “You should
know who runs the greater risk. But I have a stipulation to make.”
The Judge arched his brows. “A stipulation? Another? My volatile and
resourceful friend, do not ask too much. It is by no means certain that
your extraordinary missile--or was it to be a war-club?--might not fail
of the desired effect. You have already stipulated for your life, and
I think,” said the Judge dryly, “that if you have any other demand to
make, it had best be a modest one.”
“I do not choose,” said Jeff steadily, “that my wife shall suffer
needless anxiety--unneeded if you set me free at last. Still less do
I choose, if I meet with foul play at your hands, or if I should be
killed attempting an escape, to have her haunted by any doubt of me.
I shall write to her that I am in Old Mexico, in some part known to
be dangerous, tempted by high pay. You will send it to be mailed down
there. Then, if I do not come back, she will think of me as honorably
dead, and be at peace.”
It came into the Judge’s active mind that such a letter--dated and
signed from some far-off Mexican town--might, in some contingencies,
be useful to him; his bold, blue eyes, which had faced an imminent
death firmly enough, dropped now to hide the treacherous thought. And
upon this thought, and its influence upon sending the letter, Jeff had
counted from the first.
“There are other reasons,” said Jeff. “You have been pleased to speak
well of me. You have boasted, both for yourself and for me, enough and
more than enough. Let me now boast for myself. Has it never occurred to
you that such a man as I am would have friends--formidable friends?
That they are wondering what has become of me? If you agree to my
arrangement, I have a chance of saving both my life and some shreds of
decency. I do not now want my friends to come in search of me and get
me killed in trying to rescue me--for you will, of course, redouble
your precautions after this. This letter will put my friends at ease. I
will have to trust you to mail it. That is the weakness of my position.
But I will think that there is a chance that you will mail it--and that
chance will help me to keep a quiet mind. That much, at least, will be
a clear gain. Do this, and I will yield a point to you. If you would
rather I didn’t, I will not go to see you hanged!”
The amazing effrontery of this last coaxing touch so appealed to Judge
Thorpe’s sense of humor that he quite recovered his good nature. “My
dear boy,” he said, “if I should ever be hanged, I wouldn’t miss
having you there for worlds. It would add a zest to the occasion that
I should grieve to lose. I will agree unconditionally to your proposed
_modus vivendi_. As I understand it, if I can hang Tillotson you are
to keep silence and go free. But if you can contrive to get me hanged
you are to attend the festivity in person? It is a wager. Write your
letter and I’ll mail it. Of course, I’ll have to read it and edit it if
needed. And say--Bransford! I’ll mail it, too! You can be at rest on
that point. In the meantime, I presume, I may move without bringing the
typewriter about my ears?”
“You may,” said Jeff. “It’s a bet. I wish you’d wait and I’ll write the
letter now. She’ll be anxious about me. It’ll take some time. I always
write her long letters. Let me have your fountain-pen, will you?”
“Why don’t you use your typewriter?” said the Judge. “And, by the way,
I fear we shall have to deprive you of your typewriter in the future.”
“A typewritten letter wouldn’t be consistent at all,” said Jeff. “I am
supposed to be writing from darkest Old Mexico. No typewriters there.
Besides, I can’t write with the damn thing to do any good. Say, don’t
take it away from me, Judge; there’s a good fellow. I want to master
it. I do hate to be beaten.”
“The elasticity with which you adjust yourself to changing conditions
is beyond all praise,” said the Judge, smiling. “Like the other Judge,
in the Bible, I yield to importunity. I can deny you nothing. Keep your
typewriter, then, with the express understanding that its use as a
deadly weapon is barred. Here’s the pen.”